Wednesday, June 18, 2014

First off, Your Mama would like to thank the children for their patience. We know we've kept y'all waiting a long time but there were, as they say, a lot of ducks that had to get in a row.

We noted that most of y'all were mostly good in our near three week absence and didn't get too out of line in the comments section. Some of you even left thoughtful notes. We appreciate that. We do not, however appreciate those couple of nasty emails. (You know who you are.) Anyways...

Your Mama could not be more pleased to finally tell the children that we're packing our bags and taking our saucy property gossiping ways over to Variety magazine. That's right. Variety magazine. Bam! Deal with it. It's the end of one era and the doorway to a whole new future.

This site, our beloved digital home for seven plus years, will remain accessible but inactive for the next few days at which point it will automatically redirect all Your Mama's children to our new digital home with all the fine, Showbiz reporting folk at Variety.

Starting today, all new online Real Estalker content can be found here, in the newly formed Dirt section of Variety's online portal. We'll also be dishing celebrity real estate-related dirt in the publication's weekly print issue.

Now, buckle your safety belts, kids because Your Mama is about to make a rare and uncomfortable but necessary breach of the fourth wall...

I would like to offer a sincere if woefully inadequate thank you to all the Real Estalker readers, especially the old timers and the regulars—you know who you are—for your often enlightening commentary and insight, unrelenting encouragement and absolutely humbling dedication.

I must also thank the hundreds of deliciously chatty informants, especially the old timers and the regulars. (Y'all know who you are, too, but as always will remain anonymous.)

And, finally, to my unfailingly supportive family and ever-so-tolerant friends—you all certainly know who you are, I hope—and, of course, to the good Dr. Cooter: Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Monday, June 2, 2014

NOTE: Sorry, children, Your Mama needs one more day. Please be patient. (And don't make a mess is the comments sections or I'll just have to turn them off, okay?)

It may incite the vitriolic wrath of a few of the more sharp-tongued children but Your Mama has none-the-less decided to take a two week retreat in a remote, morgue-quiet high desert location where telephone and internet service is, at best, unreliable. That's right, butter beans, two weeks.

We do not plan to (dis or) discuss any celebrity-related real estate transactions until June 17, at which point we'll have some exciting news to unveil about the future of our little online endeavor.

Friday, May 30, 2014

YOUR MAMAS NOTES: It took a bit of a group effort between Your Mama and The Bizzy Boys at Celebrity Address Aerial to figure out that singer/songwriter Jakob Dylan quietly unloaded a freshly rehabbed compound-like mini-estate in the Point Dume area of Malibu for $7,375,000.

Mister Dylan, besides being honest to goodness rock 'n' roll royalty—his daddy is Bob Dylan, in case you didn't know, fronts the band The Wallflowers and, along with Dave Matthews, co-founded the fairly newly formed supergroup The Nauts.

As best as this property gossip can tell, Mister Dylan and his former actress/budding screenwriter wife, Paige Dylan, purchased the hair-more-than-an-acre spread in February 2011 for $3,980,000. They hired accomplished Malibu architect Doug Burdge to give the 1950s-era semi-Spanish style residence a cosmetic overhaul that included the removal of a swimming pool and the installation of downright drool-worthy, wide plank white oak wood floors throughout.

Listing details show the main house plus the two guest houses have a combined square footage of 7,752. One of the guest houses, as per the listing, has 650 square feet and the other 722. If Your Mama uses our ever-reliable bejeweled abacus to add up those latter two figures and then subtract the sum from the total square footage we come up with a main house that measures in at 6,380 square feet. Listing details we perused explicitly suggest the buyer verify the abode's square footage by their own means as the L.A. County Tax Man shows the house has just 5,303 square feet. (Curiously, a digital listing we dug up from the time the Dylan's acquired the property peg the place at 5,611 square feet with six bedrooms and 7 bathrooms.) Whatever the size, online marketing materials show the property has seven bedrooms and five bathrooms but, honestly children, where not sure if that includes any bedrooms and/or bathrooms in the guest cottages.

A high wall and an even higher thicket of shrubbery obscure the peering eyes of passers by and a gated driveway pushes deep into long and narrow property where it circles up to pass under a humbly scaled porte-cochere and pools up in a motor court with front-facing attached garage.

Wrought iron and glass doors open into a ridiculously but pleasantly over-sized reception gallery with pitched beam ceiling, huge windows and what Your Mama imagines (and hopes) is an authentic Beni Ourain rug. The luscious wood floors and vaulted ceilings continue into the living room where a chunky, minimalist fireplace with over-sized firebox anchors one end of the room and a wall of built-in bookshelves the other. Four sets of single-pane French doors that open to a terraces hemmed in on three sides by the back of the house and a baby grand piano and an acoustic guitar or two easily converts this the sitting room in to an extremely intimate music venue.

It's possible and maybe even likely, much of the Dylan's personal day-core and artworks were stripped down for the marketing process but, even if not, we're in an honest swoon for the all but unadorned formal dining room that stops short of cold austerity with a glimmering crystal chandelier (that could probably be hung a mite lower), a rustic and beat up, 10- or 12-seat farmhouse table and eight elegant and refined button tufted chairs that evoke a soupçon of 1940s glamour. But anyways...

We don't care what any of the children say about the uninspired, plain-Jane exterior of this house—because it's pretty ho-hum—but we think the kitchen is kinda fantastic. Two boxcar-sized center islands have slab marble counter tops on walnut cabinetry. Each has a two-stool snack bar and neither, it should be noted, are located underneath a dreaded and—Yes!—occasionally malevolent pot rack, thank you very much. The appliances are top-quality stainless steel and include double wall ovens and full-height side-by-side refrigerator and freezer. One end of the room has a built-in breakfast banquette next to French doors that open to motor court at the front of the house and, at the opposite end of the long, sky-lit space, more French doors open to a roof-shaded dining terrace that overlooks the backyard.

The kitchen flows directly into a step down family room with corner fireplace and a sculptural staircase that ascends to a large loft space with kiva-style corner fireplace and glass doors that open to a wrought-iron railed balcony and staircase that leads down to the backyard recreation and entertainment areas.

The privately situated, second floor master suite has a high, vaulted ceiling and plenty of room for a sitting area. A quartet of single-pane French doors open to a slender, wrought iron railed balcony that affords an long and wide, over-the tree tops view of the ocean. There are two roomy closets, as per listing details, plus a big and glitzy bathroom with two marble-topped vanities surmounted by florid, Rococo-esque mirrors, a jetted garden tub, a glass-fronted shower stall, and—Praise be!—a separate, privacy promoting cubicle for the crapper.

The back of the house wraps around three sides of a spacious, plaza-like central courtyard terrace where previous to its most recent renovation there was a small swimming pool and spa surrounded by a whole lot of red brick terracing. (The Dylans apparently installed a spa somewhere—it's noted in listing details—but they did not put in another pool. No offence, but for nearly eight million clams we want a pool but, then again, if you have eight million for the house you probably can scrape up another quarter million for a badass swimming pool complex.)

The terrace steps down to a thin strip of lawn that, in turn, steps down to a lighted tennis court. The paltry bit of grass between the tennis court and the terrace might seem stingy except that there's a vast stretch of lawn between the street and the front of the house where there's a children's playground tucked up into the shade of a small stand of mature trees.

Your Mama's research on the internets suggest Mister and Missus Dylan have lived or at least maintained a residence in Malibu since 2008 when they paid $3.35 million for a 1.3 acre property (with 2,365 square foot house) that they sold in the last days of 2011 for $3,575,000. Our research also suggests but does not entirely prove the couple still own yet another house in Malibu, this one an almost 6,000 square foot, decidedly contemporary dwelling on a gated, ocean view plateau in the foothills above Point Dume that last traded hands in the early days of 2011 for $4,250,000.listing photos: Coldwell Banker

Thursday, May 29, 2014

YOUR MAMAS NOTES: Most New Yorkers at least the ones we know and whether they can afford one or not, have a picture of their ideal weekend getaway. For Bunny and Flower it's a rustically chic and arty-farty compound in upstate New York. For Jo-Jo R-Po it's a puny, un-winterized waterfront bungalow on the North Fork. And for Soozie-Q and Fred it's a rambling (and nearly ramshackle) shingled cottage on a large (if somewhat untended) lot in a quiet corner of the Hamptons.

For Emmy-winner Louis Szekely, an upwardly mobile stand-up comedian and sitcom star known professionally as Louis C.K., it's Primrose Cottage, a gloomy but stunningly intact, turn-of-the-century timbered Tudor on two water front acres on Shelter Island that he reportedly snatched up for $2.44 million.

So the scuttlebutt goes, Babe Ruth once summered in the three-story, 4,957 square foot house that listing details show has half a dozen bedrooms, 3.5 bathrooms, and six wood-burning fireplaces. (Big whoop!) The generously proportioned main rooms stop short of grand—it's a vacation house, after all—and, although they could use some spit and polish, retain an impressive array of original architectural details. The tightly spindled staircase alone is a revelation and the built-in inglenook benches next too some of the fireplaces couldn't be more charming even if they are a wee impractical for modern day life.

The pastel paint on the walls in some of the rooms is on decorative trend—not that Mister C.K. gives a shit about that—but it looks a bit wan and old fashioned in the somewhat dim listing photographs. And the kitchen, well, it looks reasonably sized but—lowerd have mercy, butter beans—it needs a complete overhaul starting with that mortifyingly massive (and massively mortifying) pot rack. All the children should know by now that Rule #8 in Your Mama's Big Book of Decoratin' Dos and Don'ts adamantly forbids the use of pot racks in residential kitchens. Not only are they voracious dust magnets they're also a capricious if inanimate menace that will drop a pot on a puppy's head without warning or snatch the weave right off the head of an unsuspecting weave wearer.

An asymmetrical front porch overlooks an otherwise landscape-less, hedge-ringed lawn and, off the rear of the residence, a spacious and inviting, brick-floored screen porch has a long view over the flat back lawn to the water's edge. There isn't a swimming pool or a tennis court—there's room for both should Mister C.K. want them—but there is, however, a private dock that extends out into a cut that provides direct and easy boat access to West Neck Harbor and Noyac Bay. The convenient boat parking facility was probably a selling point for Mister C.K. who owns an micro-yacht that was recently featured on Jerry Seinfeld's pleasantly droll web series Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee.

We read, Mister C.K. once lived at the fabled and controversially condo-fiedApthorp complex on the Upper West Side but we also have a vague memory of being told by someone—we don't recall when or by whom—that he moved downtown, to the formerly boho now fully gentrified West Village. Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

In addition to his somewhat dark and relentlessly self-deprecating stand-up work the veteran comedian also writes, directs and edits a smartly calibrated and critically acclaimed, semi-eponymous sitcom (Louie) that closely adheres to the framework of his own life.